Firsts
by WhitneyAllisonStone
Summary: This is my first attempt at fanfiction. It takes off from the shows season 2 story line, after the return of Joan in the episode "Paint it Black." It's more or less what I wish would have happened in this moment, after I completed the old seasons, and caught up on the new episodes. Hope people like it, but if not, it was fun to write.


From the moment that he walked in, he could think of nothing else. Where was she? Was she hurt? How was she feeling? It had never dawned on him, the level to which his love for her delved. He had known since the beginning that she was different, that she meant something to him. And as the years passed, he came to grips with that fact that he loved her. In his most honest moments with himself, he recognized that she was the person that he loved most on this earth. What he wasn't ready to reconcile with was the type and depth of that love. Outwardly he would admit that he cared for Joan, but he never went so far as to classify the nature of that adoration. But in this moment, when he finally had her back in safe surroundings, away from harm and danger, he didn't have to clarify his admiration for her: he loved her, whole heartedly, deeply, with every fiber that existed within him.

As he came around the corner and saw her sitting there on the couch in her usual way, he didn't hesitate for a moment. He locked eyes with her and with purpose, strode across the room in a few long steps. She rose to meet him in front of the sofa and without saying anything, attempted to put his obviously distressed mind at ease. He stood in front of her, so close he could feel the return of his own warm breath and smell the sweetness of her lip balm. He refused to look away, and as the moment grew longer, Joan spoke.

"I'm alright," she said with a shake in her voice, as though she were trying not only to convince him, but herself as well. "I'm alright," she repeated, attempting to have it sound more confident and less like a question.

As she spoke again, Sherlock reached for her face with both hands, cradling her cheeks in his palms. Taking a long deep breath and still locking eyes with her he leaned his forehead toward her forehead and felt comfort and relief as her skin touched his own. He finally closed his eyes in a long blink, and his face wrinkled in obvious tension from the mixed emotions he was feeling. He was so relieved she was unharmed, so thankful he was holding her face now, but tense from the proximity between them, and consumed with an ache to hold her closer.

He opened his eyes and leaned his head back again to better gaze at the whole of her face. He continued to hold her cheeks and rub their softness with the pad of his thumbs. He realized that Joan had closed her eyes as well, and as she slowly opened them, words were silently spoken between them. She understood the anguish that he had endured while she was held hostage, and she too recognized the tension that passed between them in this moment.

For the first time since entering the brownstone, Sherlock realized that there were other people in his house. He and Joan were in fact surrounded my strangers in suits. This realization brought him out of the intimate orbit that only moments ago he and Joan had shared, and he came plummeting back earth and the gravity of the situation. His desire to stay close to Joan and continue holding her in some fashion became overwhelmed with an ire that made his vision almost red.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's voice seemed loud against the silence they had just shared, but steady and controlled. Joan answered him with a nod and a quiet "over there," as she gestured to the study. Reluctantly, Sherlock let his hands go from Joan's jawline where he had been almost cradling the based on her neck, but not before giving her face a small reassuring squeeze, and bring her forehead to his mouth, where he simply let his lips rest on her hairline as he breathed her in.

Sherlock turned from Joan and faced the study, where he saw Mycroft standing in the entry, who had been looking on at the intimate moment he and his partner had just shared, with a look of annoyance and understanding. Sherlock's countenance had shifted as well, from admiring Joan to loathing his brother. Just as quickly as his strides to Joan had been, Sherlock almost flew at Mycroft.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" Mycroft started to say in a calm voice, but his brother was already grabbing him by the lapels and shoving him against the wall of the study.

"I want you out! I want you gone!" He screamed. "She could have been killed because of your asininity!"

Mycroft looked down at his brother with calm eyes, enduring the wrath that he knew he deserved; that he knew his brother needed to relinquish. Quietly, he tried to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

"There is nothing you can say!" He said sternly, gripping Mycroft's jacket again and giving him another shove against the wood. "Nothing that will justify your actions!" Attempting to control his rage, he almost threw his brothers coat back at him, straighten his own jacket and stood confidently and poignantly before his brother.

"I hated you before this. Now," he paused and took a long breath. "I will not know you. I have no brother." His voice was even, with a quiet authority. It implied everything that Sherlock had not uttered out loud. This point of contention was not up for discussion.

There was no reason for Mycroft to speak. He knew that he had explained the circumstances to Joan, and made his apologies to her for the degree in which she had been involved. He would have to trust that Joan would relay this information to Sherlock at a later time, when things were not so heightened by the evening's events.

Mycroft stepped away from the wall toward Sherlock, and as he did, Sherlock took an equal step backwards keeping the distance between them the same. Refusing to acknowledge his brother he looked away toward the front door of the brownstone, and simply starred in that direction. The implication was obvious and well received by Mycroft who took one deep breath, looked at the floor and started for the doorway. As he walked passed Joan and some of the suited men, he looked at her and without pausing apologized again. As he left the brownstone, a few of the suits followed him out. Shortly thereafter, the remaining men received summons via their conspicuous earpieces, and made a controlled exodus from brownstone.

The last suit to leave was in fact a doctor that had been tending to Joan. Sherlock didn't hurry this man out. He allowed him to finish any and every point of triage that he wished, ensuring that Joan was sound and in one piece. As he gathered his things, and gave Joan instructions for the days to follow, Sherlock paid close attention, devouring every direction the physician had given.

As the brownstone door closed behind the doctor, Sherlock lock the deadbolt. He looked straightforward as if he wasn't standing a foot from the doorway, took a deep breath and pivoted on his heels to return to the front room where Joan was. She was sitting on the sofa and stood as he came around the corner. She began to speak as she saw Sherlock walking towards her.

"Sherlock, I'm-" She was cut off by the touch of Sherlock's mouth to hers. Once again he stood in front of her, cradling her face, but this time there was no hesitation; no reserve. He pressed his lips to hers with a forceful passion, and held them there until he felt her fingers touch his face softly. With that unspoken consent, he took one hand around the back of her neck and head, softly grabbing some of her hair and let his other hand gather her close to him by applying a soft pressure to the small of her back. Joan's fingers went from his cheeks to the back of his head and with a tender vice grip, she held the entirety of his head in her arms, clutching at portions of his hair. They're kiss soften some and they both allowed for some movement between their lips before breaking the kiss and simply hugging one another in a tight embrace. Sherlock found that he was holding a fist full of Joan's blouse in his hand at the small of her back and pressing her head closer to his own as he squeezed her small frame. She let the whole of her body weight fall against him, allowing him to support her and more softly cradled his head between her arm and her cheek. She started to speak again.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. I should have listened to you when you warned me about the clientele at Mycroft's restaurant." Her voice was clear with certainty and gave no hint that she wanted to be released. Sherlock didn't speak. He simply squeezed her a bit tighter and shut his eyes tightly, letting the grimace on his face wear off before looking at her.

Keeping their chests and bodies touching, they both leaned back a bit to look at one another. Sherlock's gaze lingered and moved over the entirety of Joan's face and she looked directly into his eyes as they wandered. He brought her head close to his again, and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and drank up the sensation. As he looked back at her face, she opened her eyes and met his gazed. For a suspended moment they looked at one another and nothing needed to be spoken out loud. He took a quick deep breath that visibly disrupted his shoulders, pursed his lips with a small smile and gave a slight shake of his head as if he was surrendering to something. He looked over her face once more before looking down to space where their bodies met. When he raised his gaze again, there was a very faint trace of tears in his eyes and as he spoke his voice was quiet and sure, but almost timid as if he were afraid to say the words out loud.

"You're so dear to me Watson," he said. "With all that I can, and for all that you are," he paused a moment and with a slight shake in his voice he almost whispered, "I love you." He gave a small nod, as though his body were in agreement with his mind.

For the first time, Joan's gaze wandered over his face and settled on his lips. Touching them softly with her fingers, Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying every sensation that came with the intimate touch. Joan used her fingers to slowly bring his head down a bit and kissed him softly with open lips and open eyes. Witnessing the effect her mouth had on his and his overall expression, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the moment that passed between them. Her silent "I love you too" was fully acknowledged by Sherlock and the ache that had been deep within his bones for quite sometime, felt relief and joy.

He once again grabbed a fist full of her blouse as he brought her closer to him, and they stood silently in the front room, enjoying the taste of one another to the fullest.

The night ended after they had sat together on the sofa, quietly starring into the fire for what seemed like hours. Joan had rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder and he had his arm around her in a protective and somewhat possessive manner. When neither or them had spoken in quite some time, Sherlock leaned back and looked down to see Joan's face without disturbing her. Realizing she had fallen asleep, he carefully leaned back and to the side of the couch, stretching out his stature, allowing her to fully extend her body on the couch beside him. He never needed much sleep, but Joan had always valued hers. Her bed, no doubt, would have been more comfortable but if he was being honest with himself he wasn't ready to let her go and didn't want to risk waking her.

He sat there for hours contemplating the night's events and what had transpired between his partner and himself. Things would obviously be somewhat different from now on, but he had felt this way about Joan for quite sometime and managed to be quite productive and useful in spite of it. Regardless of the words that passed between them, he was confidant that their partnership would only be stronger because of the care they had for one another.

In the quiet hours of the early morning, Sherlock Holmes fell asleep on the front room sofa, with the weight of his whole world laying on his chest; Joan Watson.


End file.
